Professional Discourtesy
by antepathy
Summary: IDW, MTMTE based: Drift/Perceptor, Brainstorm doesn't take competition well.  slash, sticky


NC-17  
>IDW MTMTE<br>Drift/Perceptor, Brainstorm, Swerve, Rodimus Prime, Ultra Magnus  
>sticky, spoilers kinda for MTMTE 1 <p>

"Kind of in a rush," Brainstorm muttered, loud enough for Perceptor to hear.

"I know." Perceptor bent lower, under the housing of the plasma drive.

"All of them are counting on us," Brainstorm said, shifting around behind him, just enough to crowd him. No, it wasn't deliberate, Perceptor thought. Brainstorm just wanted to help.

"I'm doing my best."

"_Your _best." A snort, that was hard to take as anything other than cutting.

Perceptor concentrated on the plasma drive's power coupling. Radiation had spiked during their last jump, into dangerous levels. And that, he told himself sternly, was more important than your ego. "I'll be out of your way in a moment."

A restless shift was Brainstorm's only acknowledgement.

/Perceptor. Any update?/ Rodimus's voice; and Perceptor could recognize, all too well, the strain in his voice, forcing his tone to be upbeat and positive.

/Working on it,/ Perceptor said. /Thus far I see nothing irreparable./

A hesitation, fighting against getting his hopes up. /When will you know for sure?/

/A cycle? Two?/ Perceptor didn't want to misrepresent the truth. And their lives depended on the plasma drives: after the explosion that had sent them halfway across known space, they'd been limping along, hoping to find some astronavigational point, afraid to risk the drives on a bigger jump. He needed to be thorough, to be sure.

/Half a cycle,/ Brainstorm said, briskly. /Another cycle for full repairs./

"We're not even sure what the problem is," Perceptor whispered, scandalized.

"We know what it's not," Brainstorm said, tartly. "Everything you've looked for."

Perceptor sat back on his heels, stung."All right," he said, surrendering.

/Which is it?/ Rodimus, only on audio channel, waiting for confirmation.

Perceptor shook his head. Brainstorm smirked, optics glittering with victory. /Half a cycle for diagnostic./

[***]

"Half a cycle," Brainstorm gloated. "And I was right." He drummed his fingers on the table in the refectory.

Swerve bounced, studying the datapad. "Instinct! That's what a true genius relies on."

Perceptor scrolled through the datapad, hoping it masked his dismay. Swerve had always been enthusiastic. It wasn't personal. Swerve was the least competitive mech on Kimia, when they'd served there together, right up there with Ironfist when it came to willingness to share and collaborate.

Ironfist. He missed Ironfist.

"That's about right," Brainstorm said. "Plodders are great when we have time, but we have a mission."

"A quest!" Swerve cut in, beaming.

Brainstorm winked. "A quest," he agreed. "And we can't let caution hold us back."

"It's not caution to care about the safety of the ship and crew." Perceptor looked up, startled by the voice from over Brainstorm's shoulder. Drift, an enigmatic smile lingering on the corners of his mouth.

Brainstorm turned, his triumphant grin brittling. "Hey. I care."

A tilt of the helm, painfully familiar to Perceptor. "Everyone should care," Drift said. "We need to rely on each other."

"That's true! The band of adventurers must…band together," Swerve said, "to face any adversity, overcome any obstacle, rise to any challen—"

"Rodimus said he wanted to talk to you," Drift said, nodding at Perceptor. "Something he wants you to work on."

"Great," Brainstorm said, pushing up. He got stopped by a black hand on his shoulder.

"Perceptor," Drift said. "He asked for Perceptor."

Brainstorm glowered, dropping back onto the seat. "Really."

"There are other things you could work on, I'm sure," Drift said, calmly, his hand never leaving the shoulder, as Perceptor got up to leave.

"Yeah." Brainstorm said, "Whatever."

"Together," Swerve said, grinning broadly. "Science buddies!" He held up his ration to clink against Brainstorm's for a toast.

Brainstorm looked distinctly crestfallen, one lipplate curled as he listlessly held up his own cube.

[***]

Perceptor followed Drift, wrapped in that awkward silence: he didn't know how to approach Drift, after all that had been between them, didn't know how to begin. Did he continue as though nothing had happened? Just pick up the threads of their relationship as though they'd simply been laid aside? Or was it better to acknowledge, and apologize for, the hurt between them, all the distance of the war, of what each had seen and known and suffered?

Drift had changed, he thought, falling into step behind the swordsmech. He'd changed, and not just physically. Although that was jarring enough, those subtle differences in the armor, contour and color. Lines that Perceptor's palms ached to curve around, deco he longed to trace.

But Drift gave no sign of wanting him. He didn't shun him or anything, give him strange, hostile looks, merely that bland pleasantness he gave everyone these days, that strangely upbeat demeanor.

Perhaps it wasn't strange: perhaps that was who Drift had always been, under the accretion of deprivation in the gutters, the violence of the Decepticons. Maybe this was who Drift had been meant to be and the Drift he knew merely some transitory stage, a chrysalis now discarded.

Like you, Perceptor, discarded, unneeded.

The war was over, and Drift could become who he'd really been all along. And you, Perceptor? What can you become? What can be made of nothing?

And this was maudlin nonsense, he chided himself, squaring his shoulders. They need you here; you can do some good. That should be enough.

Should be.

Drift paused, keycoding the lock to the command room, looking up at the former sniper. His former lover. "Perceptor," he said, and there was a tremulous velvet in his voice. "Are you well?"

No. Not now, not ever. Not since you left, not since long before that. But that doesn't matter. And Perceptor told himself he was imagining the softness in the voice. It was just a common greeting, a question so banal that most mechs didn't bother to answer in depth. "Fine," he managed, sounding thin and insincere even to his own audio. Drift tilted his head, giving him a lingering, curious look, before tapping the last key.

Rodimus lounged against the central console, one heel braced on the vertical cabinet, arms crossed, mid-argument with the white and blue mass of Ultra Magnus. "One day," he said, "you'll loosen up a bit."

"Algor morphis," Ultra Magnus retorted. "Until then, I have a mission."

"Yeah, yeah, Tyrest Accord. Got it."

"That's not—"

"Perceptor is here." Drift interjected, his voice, though quiet, still cutting through the tension between them.

There was that strange hesitation, the abrupt cutting off of that conversation, as they turned to him. "Right," Rodimus said. "We wanted to ask about, you know, some alterations to the ship."

"Alterations." He felt huge and clumsy, even though Ultra Magnus towered over him.

"A shipwide system," Ultra Magnus said. "To shut down and isolate parts of the vessel that may have been breached or…," he gave an unpleasant frown, "contain some threat."

The spark-eater. Yes. Perceptor nodded, for a moment swayed by the science. "It's possible. It can be done with mechanical cut offs or energy barriers. The latter would take more energy, but would be more stable."

"But it can be done."

He nodded, his cortex racing with the ship schematics, already thinking of where to place power couplings, baffles, an alarm trigger. But…. "You should bring the others in on this, the others from Kimia."

"Swerve's specialty is metallurgy," Rodimus said. "Plus, he's Swerve. He can keep a secret about as well as I can be humble." A cheeky grin.

"Brainstorm?" He didn't relish having to work with the acerbic mech, but, well, what he wanted didn't matter.

"No," Ultra Magnus said, sharply.

"Uh, yeah. Brainstorm's good at superweapons."

"Unethical superweapons."

"Rumor has it he had a plaque in Room 113 just for him, listing all the ideas he's had shot down as too unethical."

"Not ideas," Ultra Magnus corrected. "Actual weapons." If his frown grew any deeper, it would start cutting into his chassis.

"Not a rumor," Perceptor said. He'd seen it. And the overflow plaque.

"Point is," Rodimus said, "Brainstorm apparently weaponizes everything. This is…not a weapon."

"Nor do we intend it to become one," Ultra Magnus said. "You can be trusted."

It was meant as a compliment, but somehow it stung: he was not one of the wildly creative minds, like Ironfist or Brainstorm. He was more like Jetfire, methodical, plodding and slow, picking at science like a bunch of knots, requiring patience and delicacy.

It was a compliment, but it felt like a rebuke, a comment on what he wasn't.

"You'll have a private lab. Always locked down," Ultra Magnus said. "And if you need help with security, Drift will assist you. Or me." He made it clear he preferred the second option, but followed the chain of protocol: Drift did, technically, outrank him.

Drift beamed at him and he felt like withering under the sunlight of that smile. It was a stranger's smile, so unused to the gentle, rare grin he remembered from before. No, he thought, this wasn't his Drift. This was who Drift was meant to be. And he may remember you fondly, but…that's all.

What else could he do? He was needed, if not wanted. He nodded, the gesture signing some bond among them. They had a use for him, which was far more than they'd had in the prisoner bay on Turmoil's ship.

[***]

"So. Where do you squirrel yourself away all day?" Brainstorm, dropping down next to Perceptor in the Medibay. Perceptor had been scheduled a tune up, under orders from Rodimus himself. Under the line of green code on his duty roster had blinked two messages. One, bold, blue, "The laboratory is inaccessible to you until you retrieve the new keycode from Ratchet," signed with Ultra Magnus's glyph. And another, small, personal, red. "Take care of yourself." Rodimus's seal. And nothing from Drift.

It ached. But he doubted Ratchet could do anything to fix this hurt.

"A lab," he said, quietly.

"Working on that…something for Rodimus, huh?"

"Yes." Perceptor looked around, trying to catch Ratchet's optic, feeling that edge against his chassis, like someone was dragging a humming blade of tension over his spark chamber. Maybe he was overdoing it. Maybe the reminder was more timely than he'd thought.

"How's it going?" A quirk of the mouth. "No, wait. Don't tell me. Slow. It's going slow."

He had nothing to say: it was accurate and the blade seemed to cut a little deeper. Every power line and ventilation conduit needed to be mapped, every strut and bulkhead studied, to find suitable places for breach walls. A miscalculation could do damage to the ship's infrastructure. It was the kind of work he'd enjoyed back on Kimia, when science was his whole world: the kind of science that required patience and a methodical mind; the kind of science that protected lives.

He was never a weapons maker, and he'd always felt a bit envious of those that were: Ironfist, Brainstorm. They were the big names, the flashy names, the ones, he realized, sitting next to Brainstorm, too valuable to be let go.

Unlike himself.

Ratchet caught his gaze, giving a nod. And Perceptor remembered that the last time they'd spoken, he'd called the medic's theories 'stupid'. He sank lower in his seat, studying his thumbs.

"Yeah, well, good thing it's nothing we need anytime soon, right?" Brainstorm gave a pointed grin, kicking one leg up to rest, ankle crossed on the opposite knee.

"That's enough."

Perceptor twitched, almost guiltily, at the voice, the presence of Drift.

"What?" Brainstorm said, rolling his head insolently back along his shoulders. "Just saying it's a good thing to have Perceptor on board. You know. He's so fast."

"I heard," Drift said, and for a moment, the bright smile flashed into something brighter and more dangerous.

"Drift," Perceptor said, rising, "you don't have to—"

"I do." He rounded on Brainstorm, stepping closer, deliberately bumping against his shins. "We have to work together. As a team. We don't have time for this."

"This." Brainstorm said, tipping his chin up, insolently. "What? Is my 'negative energy' bringing you down or something?"

"Bringing us all down," Drift said. "What's your problem with Perceptor, anyway?"

"I don't have a problem with anyone," Brainstorm said.

"Good to hear," Drift said, and the smile returned, but hard, edged. He pitched his voice louder, and the Medibay around him seemed to subside into a tense silence. Even Ratchet stopped. "Because it was starting to sound like you were jealous."

"Drift," Perceptor repeated. "Don't antagonize him."

"Jealous?" Brainstorm shoved to his feet. "Of what? The only reason he got this special job is because he's your little berthwarmer. And trust me. I'm not jealous of that."

"No." Drift's tilted optics narrowed, coldly. "He's not, and that's not why he got the job."

"Oh, really." Disdain, palpable.

"He got the job because it's his specialty," Drift said. "If we needed a weapon, we'd have gotten you. If you want to make it something personal," a twitch of one cheekplate, one hand brushing one of his hilts, "I'd be glad to."

Perceptor laid a restraining hand on the swordsmech's forearm. "Please. Let it go."

Drift flicked a glance over at him. "When he does."

Brainstorm looked between them. "Yeah, okay, whatever."

"Not 'whatever', " Drift said. "Everyone here is an important part of the team. Everyone matters. Everyone." Perceptor could feel the earnest intensity from Drift's frame.

Brainstorm muttered, ducking under Drift's arm. "Yeah, okay. I got work to do. My part of the 'team'."

Drift watched him leave, in the hollow silence of the Medibay, and that tilt of the head was startling and familiar: Drift's hard glare, a snarl almost like Deadlock's curling on his mouthplates. It was feral and hard and…Perceptor trembled in recognition.

Drift's hand clamped over the hand on his wrist, after the door closed behind Brainstorm, and he moved, suddenly, dragging Perceptor out of the Medibay by it, the taller mech's steps nearly stumbling after him.

"Orders," Perceptor said. "The code to the lab."

"Can wait." He strode down the corridor, the scalloped shoulder armor cutting like teeth in the still air, until he wheeled, suddenly, and Perceptor found himself thrust against the wall, Drift's chassis hard against his, the mouth somehow finding his.

It was like time itself collapsing, the whole time of their separation falling away, their mouths fitting together perfectly, just as before, Drift's glossa pushing inside, in that mix of shy aggression Perceptor remembered.

The blade scraping his spark seemed to melt, liquefy into a soft warmth, as he bent his head into the kiss, his own hands hovering over the strange shoulder armor.

A growl from Drift's vocalizer, his hands scraping hard down Perceptor's chassis, pushing one knee between Perceptor's legs, sliding between the thighs. Their EM fields buzzed together, tingling and arousing, and Perceptor felt a sudden resurgence of desire he'd thought dormant, that he'd laid beside that day he'd woken up to find Drift gone. "Drift," he moaned.

"Yes," Drift said, dropping his kiss down to Perceptor's throat, one hand wrapping Perceptor's waist, fingertips sliding over the back struts, tangling playfully in his coolant hoses.

"Brainstorm. He might-." His words were cut off with another kiss, the tilted optics shining up into his own.

"I can handle him." A quirk of a smile. "Trust me. I can handle bullies."

Still, his hands dropped to Perceptor's hips, tugging him off the wall, letting the pelvic armor slide over one of his thighs before he stepped back, beckoning Perceptor to follow, his optics lambent with desire. But he didn't take Perceptor's hand, not this time, giving Perceptor the choice: follow or not.

It was an easy choice—Perceptor moved after, his mouthplates tingling from the kisses, his systems aflame with desire. He still had that voice of doubt, self-loathing, murmuring that he was nothing, he was no one, unimportant, but his body overrode him, following Drift to his quarters.

The quarters were uncannily familiar: Drift's spartanness exactly as Perceptor remembered, the rack for the Great Sword by the door exactly as it had been. But the berth was littered with datapads laid in an arc. And he could see, almost, how Drift would sprawl on the berth, flipping from pad to pad, poring over them for clues.

Drift gave a sheepish sound, sweeping out with one hand, sending the pads clattering to the floor before turning, hands reaching for Perceptor's waist, palms sliding over the black armor, giving a little hum of pleasure.

The smile was still new, still strange, but the desire washing against him was welcome and familiar enough: Perceptor leaned into him, and Drift buckled his legs, pulling them both onto the berth, arms entwined.

Perceptor rolled over him, chestplate sliding over the broad white of Drift's new armor, fingers exploring the new shapes and contours, tracing down the red lines, over the narrow waist. He heard his own vents shudder, unsteady, overmastered by desire. Drift grinned up at him, sliding a hand between them, to Perceptor's interface hatch. He traced the seam of the hatch itself, blind, his fingertips knowing the way, giving a soft, wanton growl. Perceptor let his gaze wander down their bodies, the legs tangling with his own, the scabbards splayed on the berth. He hadn't let himself look at Drift in so long, hadn't let himself even imagine he might have this again.

A soft laugh, and Drift's blue optics caught his own. Perceptor found himself drawn into a kiss, as though there was something magnetic in the gaze.

The fingers worked open his hatch, and he felt Drift's ventilation give a triumphant little catch, before the fingers continued their movement, feathering over the newly exposed metal, circling the equipment covers, teasing, knowing, and infinitely patient.

Perceptor found himself impatient, dropping his weight to one side, pulling Drift on top of him, parting his thighs around the sturdy hips in open invitation.

Drift grinned down at him, bucking his hips up, his hand moving to his own interface hatch. He watched Perceptor's face, as the other's optics skimmed down their bodies, to the hand on his hatch. Drift curled his spinal strut, showing his spike, silver and glistening with lubricant, sliding pressurized and erect into his hand. Drift ran a thumb over his spike, letting the tremor run over his body, letting Perceptor see it, feel it, a testament to how much he was wanted.

Drift looked up, a molten look in his optics, a lopsided grin on his face, as he hitched backwards, lowering the slick-wet spike toward Perceptor's interface equipment, and Perceptor felt a cool slickness against his valve cover. It clicked aside, hastily, his body wanton with desire, and he tipped his hips up to receive the spike as Drift slid it in, slowly, like sheathing a sword in velvet.

They both hung, for a klik, their bodies rapt, memory knitting with sensation, Drift's ventilations a hot unsteady gust between them, one hand bracing on the berth next to Perceptor's shoulder. Drift leaned down, mouth furling into a smile, the tip of his glossa flicking at the rim of Perceptor's scope.

Perceptor gave a short cry, sensation stabbing through him, sharp and exquisite, and rolling into waves as Drift began moving against him, spike sliding in his valve. His hands stroked over the armor, learning the new contours, angles, the sleek polish of a chassis that hadn't yet experienced war. It was odd—the gleaming pristine frame contrasting with Drift's experience. Odd and enticing, and he found himself fascinated by the contrast, the body rocking against his, the hips sliding against his inner thighs, and Drift's sensual groans as he moved.

It was slow and sweet, the build up, two of them re-learning each other's bodies, responses, relearning the tender touches, remembering the sounds, sensations of the other's arousal.

Drift shuddered, his frame nearly vibrating, his ventilation stopped, choked off abruptly, the overload crackling over him with the hot rush of fluid. Perceptor cried out, feeling the charge sweep over him, his hands clinging to the powerful arms over him.

A hydraulic hiss of release, Drift's body softening back down onto Perceptor's, mouth fitting against Perceptor's, heated from exertion, little prickles of excess charge dancing between their lip plates. It was a light, teasing kiss, and Drift pulled away after a moment, resting his helm's nasal on Perceptor's helm.

"Missed you," Drift murmured, the words sweet between them, the sweetest words Perceptor had ever heard.

"I didn't want to bother you," Perceptor said. "Or mess up your chance."

"Chance?" A tip forward, a brush of the mouth against his.

"To move on. To grow. To change." To leave Perceptor behind. He hadn't been able to stay away from Drift, wanting to come partly to share even a sliver of Drift's life.

"Maybe I don't want to change this," Drift said, engine idling down, fingers curling around his. "Should let you go back, get the codes to your lab," he murmured, drowsily.

"Later," Perceptor said, closing his optics, brimming and bittersweet.


End file.
